Being a wrecker and
living in the Exumas can be a tough, invisible life. You go up and
down the broken chain of Bahamian coral, day after day, trying to
beat the natives to the good spots, searching for wrecks. It is
salty, lonely and hot. But if after a storm you can find a big fat
cruiser jammed against the coral heads you can sure make out. If
she’s lying on her side and not too scattered out or deep, you
can get the brass and copper fittings, just free diving. If you are
really lucky, you can get inside through the open stern to the
staterooms. That is where you find the real goods, like jewels and
gold or silver chains from the state room drawers or even cash from
the pockets of the dead. The bodies just float there, around and
around unable to work their way out, all the while you are looking
back for sharks wondering if there is blood in the water. If she went
down deep and you have to use tanks, it can be a dangerous
enterprise. You gotta get down quick, maximize your bottom time and
slowly ascend, watching that you don’t get the bends on the way
up. That is a wreckers life and his nightmare.

My old man got back
from Vietnam in one piece and left the States for salvage work in the
Bahamas. He was a decorated diver for the Navy. He didn’t mind
talking about the war, especially when he was drunk and playing cards
with the other wreckers and haulers. He would laugh about the good
times in the Mekong river when his crew would sneak up on enemy units
and “get some”. My mother had left him a long time ago,
so it was just us two, working an old Bertram named Wicked,
bringing up salvage and hauling a few luxury goods or moving illegals
once in a while. We flew the Bahamian flag because that was where the
Wicked
was
registered. Sometimes we flew the American flag to act as tourists or
to scare off Haitian chaser boats. We changed flags as needed,
depending on the situation.

The late night fires on
the beach were often set to lure in boats looking for a protected
berth during storms. Thinking the glow of the light their salvation,
they were lured into the sharp coral, a razor-like reef that
surrounds most Bahamian islands. We sat around the bonfires screaming
into the wind, calling for our good fortune and for the bad fortune
of passing boats, a guttural taunting of the sea gods. And, on calm
nights, the constant bragging around the fires was a verbal, cursing
release of discontent. It got loud and it got physical. Fights were
common. Rum will do that to that to the worst of friends. I called
them friends because they were all we had. Frenchie, Booch, Ben and
their crews were mysterious characters and modern day pirates. I
never asked them where they were from because they were all illegal
like us. I imagine they came from the old French and Spanish crown
colonies on islands scattered south along the Lesser Antilles little
dots of coral and volcanic rock.

I took the punches and
slaps from my old man. He was a large, dark, incendiary man about six
foot and five inches. His hair was always slicked back and coal
black. His skin was perpetually tanned to dark leather. His eyes were
green and shiny against his tanned face. He would force me to dance
around the fire and drink rum while the others had a chance to land a
punch or trip me. This was their way of testing my patience and my
manhood. This was all I knew. I thought all kids had to endure this
abuse. But I kept this abuse in my heart. Often, after the fire had
dwindled out, my old man would carry me to the dingy, dump me in, and
paddle to the boat. He hauled me over into the scuppers and left me
to find my own bunk. He didn’t do this because of some paternal
duty or love for his only son. He needed me. He needed my young body
that could snake past the wreckage to the hidden sweet spots and haul
out the goods. That’s all. Somehow, this was enough for a
sixteen year old kid who lived most of his life on a boat or
underwater. I knew nothing else. But this would change.

We all slept on our
boats tied to homemade moorings behind the tiny coral islands, barely
protected from night blows and giant swells. Tired and drunk, we
passed out, and slept through the night unaware of the swirling water
and shifting wind. Often, I would awake and hear that whistling wind
through the small holes in the coral. And I knew somebody out there
was in trouble.

In early September the
wind blew heavy for three days. As soon as we could see clear sky, we
were out checking all the usual places where amateur sailors would
miss the gaps in the reef. We checked that big red coral head that
had seen so many bottoms that it was scraped bone white on top in
crisscrossing lines. Nothing there. We motored as fast as we could to
the coral that touched the air at low tide but lay right over a
hundred foot drop. The Bahamian water was so clear that you usually
didn’t need to get in the water to spot a wreck. My old man
whipped the boat around so fast I almost fell off while looking over
the edge at the sheer drop. He raced as fast as he could to a blue
hole that had ripped open some big yachts over the years. We got
there, circled a bit and caught a glimpse of a white hull sticking
straight up. It looked pristine---like it had been swallowed whole,
stuck against the coral mouth of a deep blue hell. It was jammed into
that hole like a toothpick. We quickly put out a dive flag and our
Shamrock flag with the name Flanagan on it to claim the site.
Finally, after trying different approaches, we anchored in a sandy
patch as close as we could get to the hole. We were only around 25-30
meters off the wreck. The surge was still tossing us around and we
had to wait till it stilled and the tide went slack. We watched as
other wreckers came by to take a look and we just gave them the
finger. We had ours.

There is no time to
fuck around when salvaging in the Bahamas. Its not that the Bahamian
coast guard would bother us, its just we had a deal to get the loot
out fast and they take a percentage. That was it. They let us salvage
just long enough before their bosses or the US Coast Guard could get
wind of it. Rushing a dive is dangerous but we had no choice most of
the time.

When the surge had
subsided, we went down in just mask, fins and snorkel. From what we
could see, until the dark sapphire blue enveloped her down just below
the wheel house, the yacht was about 100 feet long with her nose
stuck straight down into the abyss. On the stern in gold lettering
was the word “Serendipity”. It had a Panamanian
registration. From stern to the surface was about 35 feet. So we were
looking at a dive of about 135 feet maximum. We had to use tanks.
There was no way around it. We put on shorties, old Navy buoyancy
stabilizers (BCDs) with twin 63 cubic foot tanks. We each carried an
extra 80 cubic foot aluminum tank with regulator attached for more
bottom time and emergencies. I always carried a pony bottle strapped
to my chest. It gave me an extra 15-20 minutes if necessary. My old
man never bothered with redundant systems. He wasn’t careless,
just arrogant. Yet he was very experienced and knew exactly when to
come up and off gas slowly.

We got into the water,
dived to the stern and tied off a line to the rail to guide us up and
down. Both 80 tanks were tied to that line at the stern rail. And,
down we went carefully feeling our way down into the stern area
checking for cracks and unstable parts broken off during the storm. I
never liked diving in a blue hole. Natives told stories of swirling
currents that pull you down during a big tide change. Cutting on our
dive lights, we could see that part of the yacht’s bottom was
cracked but she was practically whole.

Diving a wreck is
always a certain kind of crazy. The narrow passages, floating objects
and sharp edges were to be avoided. You never know when the boat is
going to roll or slide down into the deep. And, with wrecks, there is
always that ever present urge to go farther and stay longer. My old
man hovered in the rear common area while he gestured for me to
descend amidships into an upper state room. The water was still clear
but I could almost touch the blue water line. The door to the state
room was stuck but I managed with my Marine K-bar to pry open the top
and crack the whole thing open. When I opened it and put my eyes on
the room I jumped and backed into the swaying door. There was a woman
in a fetal position spinning around from one corner of the cabin to
the others. Her hair looked long and red. It spread out like an
octopus reaching for the surface. The viz was so good I could read
the instructions on a fire extinguisher. I looked around and used my
knife to open drawers and pry open closets. I found nothing. I
checked out the swirling woman and she held nothing on her person.
Nothing here but dogged down brass hatches. I checked my air and made
my ascent up to the stern rail. I could not see my old man anywhere.
Maybe he had already gone back to the boat. As I was about to ascend
up the guide line, a package came floating past me following the
current up and out. I managed to grab it and brought it with me. It
was wrapped in paper with a clear plastic outer shell which must have
given it some buoyancy. I could see that it would reach the surface
eventually. I left the spare tanks tied on the guide line. When I
hauled out and handed up my flippers and tanks, I could see my old
man standing there with a pile of these packages around his feet.

“Hurry the fuck
up.”

I threw my package into
the pile.

“We scored this
time, kid. This mega yacht was carrying weed and coke. All we have to
do is get this shit to Nassau. I've got some friends that will take
it off our hands.”

All the time I’m
thinking that I don’t need this shit. Whoever owned it will be
coming for it and coming with weapons. My old man carried a BAR, a
couple of .45s and a marine sniper rifle. That’s a pretty good
arsenal against Haitian pirates but druggers carried the big
stuff---M60s, grenade launchers with White Phosporus rounds, and
M-16s. I’m a good shot with the BAR which can eat up a ship's
hull. But against a machine gun its practically useless. And I know
my old man is thinking the same shit but he's got that wide feverish
look in his eye. There is no reason to say anything.

We rested and then did
another dive to see if there were any more packages of dope. We both
did a sweep of the yacht down into the sapphire blue line where the
viz disappeared into midships. I cut on my dive light. In the wheel
house I could see the captain. He was strapped in his chair, one hand
still squeezing the wheel. His eyes were partially open and his skin
was as white as the coral. A small crab exited his mouth and deftly
crawled back in his nose. I jumped back.

We saw no more dope and
when the boat shook, I was ready to get out. But just before I left
the bad viz I saw a shiny glint that crossed my lights. It looked
like a small bright light or a brass fitting laying cockeyed, past
the wheelhouse and down the stairs running to the V berth area. It
was a quick look but it peaked my natural wrecker interest. I could
feel the change of the current as the tide was pulling us back and we
moved up to the stern where the tanks were. We were done for this
day. So we lazily climbed out of the blue hole, picked up the 80
cubic foot tanks and followed the line out of the water. By the time
I made the surface my tanks were red-lining.

My old man was happier
than I had ever seen him. He had that piratical smile that I’d
often seen when he drank rum or blackmailed illegals into giving up
all their money. But this time he was almost dancing around as he
stowed away the dope into the lockers. He pulled out his .45 from its
hiding place and loaded it with hollow points as I watched.

“This is no
fucking place for a damn skinny kid like you. Should have left you
with your whore of a mother. Go get a .45, clean it well, oil it, and
load it. Carry it in your back under your t-shirt. NOW!” As if
a .45 would make a difference. I really hated it when my old man got
that Vietnam---I’m a bad motherfucker talk going---it was
paranoia or agent orange maybe. I didn’t know what to say
except my usual “Yes, Sir.” He was one mean son of a
bitch and I always wondered if he transformed into this person in
Vietnam. I then decided not to tell him about the glint of light I
had seen as we exited the wreck. That was all mine, now. Fuck him.
When I went down again, I would try and locate that shine without
him.

Although the current
was rushing in and out and the swells were yawing the boat, we stayed
on the site to protect it from others. We put out another anchor for
good measure. This was not what the Bahamian Coast Guard liked. But
this site was the mother lode and my old man was not going to give it
up without a fight.

The night came and went
without incident and at first light we checked our equipment for
another dive. He was not going to miss a single package of dope off
this wreck. We took the big multi-lights which are hard to handle but
give you incredible visibility at depth. There were a few blue sharks
on the surface as I descended and I saw a black tip reef shark
sneaking around the wreck. Black tips usually just cruise the coral
looking to trap fish in the nooks and crannies. They’re
harmless unless you spear a fish or a lobster close to them. It’s
the white tips that really put the fear into me. Oceanic white tips
have been known to venture into the reefs although they prefer the
deep wide ocean. Of all sharks, white tips have killed more humans
than any other shark. Just ask the survivors of the USS Indianapolis.

We found practically
nothing except spinning bodies and their clothing. He sent me forward
as usual. I looked for that shine but could not locate it until a
great surge pushed me down to the head area. It was laying there like
a path into the V-berth. I left it. I came out of the blue with
nothing. My old man found a few bottles of rum and bourbon so he was
happy. We left the hook in the sand, with the stern light on, and
took the dingy ashore as it got dark.

That night the party
was on. I built a fire pit on Highborne Cay and gathered all the
driftwood I could find. When the rest of the wreckers showed up the
fire was blazing and my old man was already lit up and talking
Vietnam. We sat in a circle on fallen Palm tree logs and passed the
bottle. There was a lot of needling about our find but my old man
never uttered a word about the wreck except maybe: “Just some
brass and fucking sharks” or “What a waste of time in a
blue hole that will kill you any second.” He gave up nothing. I
remained silent as well, which was my usual self. But the others
didn’t believe that there wasn’t anything left to
retrieve since our old Bertram was still anchored near the hole. The
rum-soaked conversation turned dirty and violent. I ran the circle
and they rapped my legs with Mangrove switches while they howled at
my protestations. At the end of the night, the fire dying slowly, my
old man stood as best he could.

“Come here son.
You're johnny on the spot with the tanks and shit. But you're fucking
useless for anything else” – as if he had done all the
diving. Then he punched me in the left eye and I dropped to the sand.
The others tried to come help me but he warned them off. “What
the fuck use are you to me.” Then he missed my face and caught
me in the head with his cracked and hardened fists.

That one hurt too much
and I knew I was in for a real beating. He used his entire repertoire
on me, including some moves he must have used in Vietnam. Eventually,
I lay on the ground for good, choking on sand and bleeding from my
left eye and maybe pissing blood. Booch and Ben carried me to the
dingy and dumped me in while my old man rowed to the Wicked, boarded,
and passed out, a bottle of bourbon between his legs. I went below,
aching and bleeding and holding that heavy .45, feeling its heft.

When the sun was up, my
old man was gone. He had taken the dingy and I knew he was headed for
Nassau. My eye was partially shut and purple. My ribs hurt and the
welts on my legs had drawn a little blood. Not good for diving. But,
I couldn’t get my mind off that shine I had seen falling out of
the V-berth. Doing that dive alone was crazy. I could see good enough
but the ribs made it hard to breathe. I knew that at depth, which
would be over 100 feet, it would hurt even worse as the pressure
squeezed me. I grabbed two full aluminum 80s, suited up, and fell
over the side with an old nylon sponge net tied to a long line and
made fast on a forward cleat. The surface was dead calm but the
currents below could be pulsing back and forth. I was gonna find that
shine before my old man got back.

I tied off at the dive
line with the extra tank. Giving the line a good bit of slack to the
stern rail of the “Serendipity”
in case of rough water pitching the Bertram, I went down into the
wreck. Pulling the sponge net with me, I uncoiled as much as I could
until I stopped in the wheelhouse, out of reach of the V-berth and
made it fast on the binnacle rail with a bit of 1/4 inch line. I was
down to over 100 feet. That was far enough. I had to give it some
slack as I had the bow line. Then, with one good eye and a pounding
heart that hurt my ribs, I made my way down towards the V-berth. I
kept my eye on my depth and air as the water column squeezed my ribs
till I thought I would implode. With my dual dive lights, I felt my
way through the blue sapphire water. The visibility was just as
before and I could only see about five feet ahead of me. I was
surrounded by sparkles of blue where a few grunts and groupers were
dashing about, in and out of the head. Feeling around the hallway
toward the bow is slow going. One of the doors off the head is laying
right across my path. I make my way over it since I cant move it. It
is jammed tight against the bulkhead. As I make the V-berth, I am
sucking air hard. There is little room and my tank keeps banging the
doorway. I look around as best I can but see nothing that catches my
eye like that shine did before. Looking at my air, I decide to back
out for the long, slow ascent. Loose clothes are swirling around
covering my sight. The trash in the water opens up and then I see it.
My light catches a glimpse of what can only be gold. If I bend over
the door and down, I can put my hands on them. Shit, I need more air.
But the extra 80 tank is all the way back at the stern rail. But
after wiggling downward, I reach the bricks. I grab one and then
another. They are so heavy, that I have to push off the deck and then
off the bulkhead to free myself. Then I increase my buoyancy with
some of whats left in the Aluminum 80 on my back and swim upward with
my heavy load to the Binnacle and out of the blue. I put the bricks
in the sponge net, untie the load and it bangs against the deck. Then
I am crawling to the stern rail, sucking the last bit of air I have
on my back. When I reach the spare 80, I grab the regulator and
breathe. Then I untie the bow line and I’m free. I lazily drift
upwards, tired and holding onto the line and the tank, stopping to
off gas at various depths. When I am on the boat, I haul up the
bricks and marvel at their beauty and meaning. I didn’t want to
use my pony bottle on this dive. I had to save it for another dive, a
dive that I had been planning since last night. I hid the gold bricks
under my bunk in a rope storage hold.

When my old man came
back I could see that damn stupid look on his face and knew he had
accomplished his mission. The swell was building and the dingy
pitched as he neared. I tied off the dingy’s painter to a stern
cleat and he came aboard.

“Aren’t you
a fucking sight. Look like a corpse. Make ready to pull the hook and
pull in the lines. We are out of here.” I went forward to pull
up the anchor.

“I made a
killing. I’m gonna take a damn vacation and get away from this
damn rock. We are going to Nassau. Gonna find me a girl and a
bottle.” Shit. I could not let him leave just yet. I had no
choice but to show him the gold bricks.

I took the gold bricks
from the storage hatch and brought them up. He was starting the
engine when I showed them to him. He quickly cut the engine and
slapped me across the face. I was expecting this.

“Where the fuck
did you find these?”

He snatched them from
my hands and I answered.

“They were in the
forward berth on the wreck. There are many more.”

“Why the fuck
didn’t you tell me, goddammit!”

“I just found
them today while you were gone. I was looking for more of the dope
and saw these.”

He could not contain
his excitement and started to bark orders while gathering up dive
gear. We suited up in full 3mm wetsuits, put on the only two
remaining full aluminum 80s on and attached a few chem-lights to our
BCDs. We grabbed the biggest dive lights and sat on the edge of the
boat, ready to drop over. Conditions worsened. The swells were
getting bigger and the tide was starting to go out. The surge would
be strong down in the blue hole and he knew it. But, his greed pushed
him on. Before I could deploy the basket, he dropped over into the
water and I followed him.

While descending, I
could feel the surge push me back and forth until I tied the dive
line to the stern rail of the yacht. We checked our air and went down
into the yacht past the blue line for the gold. He led and I hung
back, feeling my leg for my K-bar dive knife. I knew he wouldn’t
let me touch the gold. I had counted on it. When he got to the head
and the doorway blocking the V berth we were close to maximum depth.
He worked hard to fit his giant body over the door. I could tell when
he saw the gold. The bubbles from his air shot up covering my mask,
blinding me. I went down and after him with my lights guiding him to
the head and then to the V-berth. Finally he was stretched over the
door, stuffing his wetsuit with gold bars. He was mad with greed. I
watched while keeping an eye on my air supply. When he started to get
back over the door, banging his load against it and struggling
mightily to clear the V-berth, I pulled out my K-bar and cut off the
dive lights. It went dark blue. My chem-lights would be all he could
see of me. I could barely see him while he added air to his BCD. With
that weight, I doubt he could reach the buoyancy needed to get
himself to the surface. He fought the water and the weight mightily,
flailing around to grab hold of anything to get purchase. I could
hear him cursing through his mask and calling for me. When I reached
the edge of the blue line and the viz came back to me, I yanked off
my chem-lights. He struggled and made his way, crawling along the
deck to the clear water. But the weight was just too much for him. He
was so weighted with the gold that all he could do was crawl across
the deck making progress by pulling himself along whatever he could
grab. I stayed back as he called for me. He poked his head out of the
sapphire blue and I grabbed him. He relaxed for a second and I pulled
him out to the stern deck. He wrapped his left hand around the stern
rail and rested. Then I quickly spun him around, cut his regulator
hoses, poked a hole in his BCD and pushed him out of the wreck. At
first, I could see the surprise in his eyes, the absolute disbelief.
He struggled to grab anything but he was too far to starboard and and
missed the big teak rail as he dropped slowly down. The air from his
tank was spewing bubbles. As he fell, he refused to drop the gold
bars and eventually all I could see was the chem-lights dim until the
blue sparkles covered him over like a watery blanket.

With my tank red-lined,
I went up the dive line after untying it from the stern rail. I got
about 35 feet ahead to stop to off gas. Then my tank went empty. I
turned on my pony bottle and tried to breathe shallow. I moved up
another 35 feet and waited. I could feel the blue hole pull me
downward. I had to chance it and climbed up the dive line and made
the surface as my pony body went dry. The surface was in a turmoil
and the boat was spinning around, tugging on the anchors. I caught
the stern and tossed up my gear with one hand on the dive platform.
Around and around. The old Bertram spun faster and faster. When I
finally got aboard, I started the engine and let it idle. Then I went
forward to the anchors. I had no time to pull them up so I cut the
lines to them and was jerked back into a whirlpool spinning around
the blue hole. My stern was facing the center of the hole and I
pushed the engine to whatever she could give me. I still was whipped
around while the engines roared doing nothing. I then turned the bow
straight into the whirlpool and spun around without fighting it.
There was a great thunder underwater as the yacht let loose of its
blue and white trap and rumbled down, breaking up against the coral
grave. I increased the power and spun around in the boat until it
whipped me out of the whirlpool, spitting me out over lumpy water.
She bucked and pitched and rolled. But I was out. I cut the engines
back and cruised to deeper water on the outside of the reef.

“Fuck.” I
had done it. I felt a freedom that I didn’t know was possible.
I looked around the boat. I looked down in the galley. I called out.
“Where are you, you son of a bitch.”

Nothing.

I made the gap through
the reef and tied up to the mooring. Frenchie’s old fishing
boat was close and swinging on its mooring. But I could not see him.
The .45 was down below and I went to get it and look for the cash my
old man had gotten for the dope. It wasn’t under his bunk.
After searching the boat for an hour, I found nothing. Then, after I
went to check on the weapons which were hid in a dry box in the
bilge, there was the money. All American dollars. It counted out to
over 25,000. I had never seen that much money before and I felt its
weight. The money and the gold meant my freedom. Out of the dry box
came the BAR with five magazines of tracers and the sniper 303 with a
scope and a box of ammo. I knew that the druggers would be coming
while I would be leaving. The weapons and the ammo laid across the
bunk amidships, ready. Since my old man had been to Nassau and sold
the dope, every fucking pirate, drugger and local boat would be
heading this way. I tried to take a nap but the night was coming and
that was when I would be leaving. But which way?

I could take the
inside. But that would squeeze me between Cuba, Haiti and Jamaica.
That would not the best route, especially at night. There is not much
water between those islands. The druggers would be coming from the
south, maybe from South America, up and through that pass. The
Haitian pirates were notorious for sneaking up on sailboats and small
fishing boats. So it had to be the outside where the water and
current would be on my side. But if I wanted to make that run, I
would closely pass the Turks and Caicos and the northern part of
Haiti and the Dominican Republic. Both had their own sets of trouble.
It was the long way around and fuel would be an issue. I knew this
water from trips EastSouthEast to the Lesser Antilles. I decided that I would
be headed for the BVIs. The British islands were small and scattered
close together, a good place to hide. It was safe enough to tie up
there unnoticed. I knew some decent people there and it was full of
tourists. My ultimate destination would be way down to Martinique. I
would follow the island dotted curve of the Lesser Antilles and look
for a place to get a new boat.

When night came I
waited for the outgoing tide and rode it nicely, shooting the gap
between Highborne Cay and Norman Cay out into the trench. Up went the
American flag. I used the running lights, the stern light and the
binnacle light to keep any US Cutters off my back. I stayed close to
the Exuma chain hugging the islands in case I had to duck out of
sight. I had charts all the way down to South America. My old man and
I had used them to smuggle illegals up north. It was slow going and I
found myself at Georgetown, the southeasterly tip of the Exumas after
two days. It was sunrise. I tied up at the only pier and went for
diesel and water. There were not many boats anchored out in the
lagoon because of the expected weather. It was September and
Hurricane season. One boat stood out however. It was a Cigarette
boat, a go boat that could outrun just about any other boat except a
coastguard cutter. I saw no one on board and left as soon as I paid
for the diesel and water.

I went Northeast. I
jumped off the Exuma chain and headed for San Salvador, which is
where you drop off into the greater Atlantic. There was another
island there called Rum Cay which was surrounded by an enormous,
slanting, nearly invisible reef which I had dived on before, spearing
fish. This was the West side and dotted with hundreds of brain corals
rising up to the surface. I knew that island so well that I didn’t
need a chart. It was a natural hiding place for smugglers. It took
all day to reach Rum Cay. Spinner dolphins rode my wake until the
water shallowed out and I went around the reef and anchored among the
Brain corals close to shore. There were no other boats around and I
went below for a nap. I cut off all my lights.

They didn’t show
until it was well dark. The Cigarette boat must have seen my US flag
and the “Nassau” on the stern showing my home port in
Georgetown and they didn’t match. Damnit. Stupid mistake.

The engines on the go
boat were rumbling as it used a portable spot light to scan the tiny
lagoon. I knew they saw me when the light passed over the Wicked
and came back. I started the engines then spun her around on the hook
with my stern facing the go boat. They weren’t firing on me
because I had the money and the gold on board. They would have to
board me. I went below and loaded the BAR with a magazine of green
tracers. In the dark tracers can guide you to your target with their
curving trajectory. The fat 30 caliber rounds can tear fiberglass to
shreds. I also loaded the sniper rifle as they kept the light on me,
looking for a way across. I heard a thump and a faint crunching
noise. Then the light on the go boat went crazy, shining all around
their boat downward. It lit them up and I could see three men
scrambling to get the boat off the reef. They had hit the reef in
their hurry to get to me. I took out the BAR, aimed at the light and
let loose that semi-automatic. The tracers bent downward slightly
until I had them. Thump, Thump, Thump. Three round bursts smacking
into that go boat, holing her out. I could see that the search light
was dropped to the deck and a couple of shadows moving around. Then a
couple of shots went wild over my head and one plunked in the water.
This time I took another magazine of tracers and emptied it into
their hull. Their engine shut off, the light went out and I could
hear the impact of my rounds. Then another round of tracers and I
heard some yelling and someone splash into the water. I took another
magazine and fired until their engine flamed and I stopped. The light
from the fire showed a sinking boat and I could make out someone in
the water. He was swimming towards me. Well, fuck him. I got the
sniper rifle and with the help of the fire’s light, I pulled
the trigger twice and he sank, dead for sure. Shark food. The fire
went on for an hour until the superstructure burned down to the
waterline and I couldn’t see it in the dark.

The morning came
quickly. I pulled up the hook and slowly rounded the reef looking at
the burned out hull. There was nothing left of her except her name on
the stern. It said Vengeance.

The Wicked
and I headed for the good harbor of San Salvador where I would jump
off into the Atlantic and head ESE again. I put up the Bahamian flag
and tossed the US flag overboard along with the homemade Irish flag.
The water was a fine clear purple and the sky was clear and bright. I
smiled as I thought of the possibilities. It was my birthday and I
was seventeen.

JP Miller is a disabled veteran, writer and a journalist. He has published fiction and non-fiction in numerous journals and magazines such as The SouthernCrossReview, The Literary Yard, PIF magazine and The Greanville Post. He lives in the Outer Banks of North Carolina.